Trapped at the Altar

“Where d’you want ’em, my lady?” Abe inquired, shouldering a leather, iron-bound chest.

“Anywhere you think, Abe.” He nodded, and she went back into the bedchamber. Tilly was there with a jug of hot water.

“No point getting dressed, Miss Ari, not if the seamstresses are coming,” she said, pouring water into the basin. “But there’s plenty of hot water for a wash.”

“Later I should like a proper bath, Tilly. D’you think it could be arranged?” She wrung out the cloth, spreading it over her face, luxuriating in the warm, moist cleanliness.

“Reckon so, miss. I’ll warn ’em below ahead of time, they’ll have to heat the coppers, but it ought to be possible.” Tilly was remaking the bed.

“I shall need your help,” Ari said, sponging between her breasts. “Before supper.”

“Oh, aye?” Tilly looked at her curiously as she plumped up the pillows. “To do what?”

“I’ll tell you later.” Ari took up her hairbrush and brushed her tangled black curls. She grimaced. “My hair’s so dirty, it feels full of grit from the road. I shall wash it when I have my bath. Do we have any rosewater or lavender?”

“There’s lavender aplenty in the garden here, and rosemary.” Tilly smoothed out creases in the coverlet. “And I’ve some rosewater I brought along when we left the valley. And a bit o’ soap, I reckon.”

“Good.” Ari nodded briskly, and a little smile played in the corners of her mouth. Ivor would not be able to resist her plan. No red-blooded male could possibly resist what she had in mind.

? ? ?

The two seamstresses arrived punctually. They were mother and daughter, Mistress Tabitha and Mistress Mary, fashionably dressed and coiffed, and they regarded Lady Chalfont with narrowed, assessing eyes as she stood before them in her shift. “Have to do something about the bosom, Mary,” Mistress Tabitha pronounced.

“Indeed, Mama. Something sewn into the gowns to push them above the décolletage.” The daughter nodded, her side ringlets shivering against her powdered cheeks.

Her mother was going through the piles of rich materials spread out over the table and the settle. “Well, we can do something with these. Nice bit of taffeta, this. Make a good jacket, it will, over a skirt in that gold damask.”

Ariadne began to feel like a dressmaker’s mannequin for all the notice they took of her. And they took even less of Tilly. After a while, she went into a trance, obeying instructions to move this way and that, to hold her arms like this or like that, as the two women went about their business. They didn’t ask for her opinion, and she didn’t think she’d have one, anyway. Tilly sat on a stool by the fire in a huff, darning stockings with sharp jabs of her needle as the hours passed, broken only by a short interval when dinner was brought up.

“A cloak in that sky-blue silk with an ermine lining, I think, Mary,” Mistress Tabitha declared, setting a pin into what would be the sleeve of an emerald-green damask gown. “And that will do for today.”

Ari jerked her head around. “No, I don’t want you to take any of the furs,” she said, speaking, it seemed, for the first time. Her voice sounded almost unfamiliar.

Mistress Tabitha looked astounded. “Not take any of them, madam? But they are to be part of the wardrobe. You must have muffs and fur lining to your cloaks.”

“Indeed, and you may do that another day,” Ariadne said firmly. “It seems to me you have quite enough to be going on with, with all these gowns and jackets and skirts. When you return, we will discuss the furs.”

Tilly had ceased her needle stabbing and looked at Ari in surprise. Mistress Tabitha frowned, sniffed her disapproval, then said, “As you wish, my lady.”

“That is my wish,” Ari reiterated calmly. “When will you come back for a fitting?”

The seamstress looked at the pile of pinned silks and satins, damasks and brocades. “In two days, madam, these will be ready for a first fitting.”

“Then you may take the furs at that time.”

“Very well, madam. Mary, send down for John Coachman to carry these down to the carriage. You will be needing shoes, my lady. Should I bring the shoemaker with a selection when we return for the fitting?”

“Indeed, if you would be so kind.” Ari gave the woman her most dazzling smile, hoping to make up for the offense she had so clearly committed.

Mistress Tabitha’s haughty disapproval seemed to abate a fraction. “I think my lady would look very well with a heeled shoe. It would provide height. Jeweled heels are most particularly fashionable at court.”

For one more accustomed to going barefoot inside and booted outside, the idea of shoes with jeweled heels seemed utterly ridiculous, but Ari merely smiled and murmured that she was sure Mistress Tabitha must be correct, as knowledgeable as she was. And the lady, her daughter, and the vast quantities of materials disappeared on the broad shoulders of John Coachman and his youthful assistant.

Ariadne sighed with relief as the door finally closed on the seamstresses. The afternoon was already drawing in. Ivor had said he would return for supper, so she had close to two hours for her preparations.

“Would you see about that bath, Tilly? Set it up in here.”

“Right away, Miss Ari. They should have enough water by now. I told ’em to be ready by sundown.”

Ari went into the bedchamber and stood assessing the room, tapping her teeth with her forefinger. Then she gave a short nod of decision and returned to the parlor, where a copper hip bath was already in place on spread sheets before the fire and two burly menservants were filling it from copper kettles.

Steam curled from the bath, and Tilly was adding drops of rosewater. The delicate scent filled the warm chamber. Two more kettles were added, and Tilly sprinkled rosemary and lavender on the surface before setting a screen between the tub and the door.

Ari stepped out of her night-robe and shift and into the hot water with a small exhalation of pleasure.





TWENTY





It was close to eight o’clock when Ivor returned to the King’s Head. He had had a productive but tiring day and was hungry for his supper. The inn was lively at that hour, but he ignored the taproom and went upstairs. The parlor was empty, although the fire burned, and the candles were lit. There was no sign of supper anywhere, but the air was perfumed with a faint, elusive, flowery scent.

“Ariadne,” he called with a degree of irritation.

“In here.”

He frowned. What was she doing in the bedchamber at this time in the evening? It was suppertime, and he was sharp-set. He opened the bedchamber door. “Is something the matter? Are you ill?” And then he stood, gazing dumbstruck at the bed.

Ariadne’s naked body lay in a nest of sable and ermine, her pale skin glowing softly in the light of two candles on either side of the bed. The only other light came from the fire, and that same delicate scent infused the air.

Ivor swallowed involuntarily, his senses swirling as he gazed at her, her glossy black curls tumbled around her head on the white pillow, the daintiness of her body against the rich furs, the rosy crowns of her small breasts, the smooth lines of her form, the concave belly and luxuriant black tangle of hair at its base, the creamy length of her thighs, the perfect dimpled knees, the slender ankles and long, narrow feet.

She was perfection in miniature, he thought, taking a step to the bed. “What is this?” His voice sounded thick, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her.